


liminality

by thejoyofbecoming



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, In Which Martin Does A Sad, M/M, MAG 159: The Last, Season 4 Spoilers, Surreal, Teaching Us the Insides, haha yikes :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejoyofbecoming/pseuds/thejoyofbecoming
Summary: experience of martin blackwood within the lonelya quiet moment (or two, or three)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	liminality

it feels so much like coming home:

the pressing awareness of limitless potential, highlighted by the starkly drawn lines between self and all else; his being, distilled, no lens through which to view his threadbare soul:

he simply

is.

it feels so much like coming home.

he does not collapse under the weight of himself; his knees do not buckle with the realization.  he is not crushed - rather, his back straightens, shoulders raise, for there is nothing to bow beneath here.

alone with his thoughts and not a care in the world.

bliss.

he floats, he drifts. he has no care for time, for who cares for time when one is complete?

he hears a voice from far off somewhere, drowned out by the sounds of being martin blackwood. there is no room to consider a martin blackwood as seen by someone else, for he  _ is  _ martin blackwood, and he will forever  _ be _ martin blackwood,  _ the  _ martin blackwood.

martin blackwood sighs dreamily, watching the breath,  _ his  _ breath, mingle with the mist.  _ his  _ lungs expanding and contracting in the quiet wonder of it all, the pleasant dread that hugs tightly to his every line, stinging as it slides across the exposed nerve ending that is martin blackwood. 

he is beyond words here, here in the lonely, in the space that should be nothing but is, regretfully, something. it does not apologize for being, and neither does he. martin blackwood looks at the lonely, and the lonely looks at martin blackwood. 

they exchange a tender smile.

his father’s face and his mother’s gaze are gone, now, slipped away into the hungry mist, joined by all the things he was not, all the people he was not. he thinks not of his losses, his gains, his shortcomings, his triumphs: 

martin blackwood thinks of the rise and fall of his chest, the dimples in his cheeks as he smiles, the ache of his soul as it stretches comfortably within its stark lines and fills its own cracks.

martin blackwood laughs to himself as tears begin to stream from his eyes.

the lonely purrs.

it feels so much like coming home.

he remembers a voice, low and full, and swears he hears it again - but it is not martin blackwood, and it is not the lonely, and so they both resolve to forget it. he is dizzy with the joy of becoming that which he already is, the joy of being nothing and everything, the joy of filling the correct amount of space exactly as he is.

he laughs and weeps and feels no judging eye, no expectation, no audience demanding to see the martin blackwood they have heard about, the martin blackwood they have sought for, the lie, the myth. 

_ you need never lie again,  _ the mist seems to promise,  _ for we care not what you are, or that you are at all. _

martin blackwood has dreamed of being nothing, dreamed of this day without understanding. martin blackwood’s sobs matter to no one but himself. he is unburdened. he is giddy with the glow of himself. 

a voice that is not martin blackwood implores him to look.

the lonely screams that to look is to give up everything that he is to someone else;

the heart that beats at the core of martin blackwood laughs and cries and screams as it realizes it finally  _ is _ , 

and to be is, so often, to want.

martin blackwood looks.

it feels so much like coming home, those searching eyes that press heavy against his own, the unspeakable pressure of them against the starkly drawn lines of himself, the thickening of those lines into something sharp and jagged like barbed wire across an endless horizon. every fiber of martin blackwood wails as he is remade in the shape of someone else, someone familiar but somehow incomplete.

martin blackwood sees the haggard face of one who is not him, one with expectations to bow beneath, one who sees martin blackwood not as he is, but as he has been told -

and yet something in him blooms,

and the lonely

simply

breaks.

and as the expectations of jonathan sims crash against the starkly drawn lines of martin blackwood, he remembers the pain of being nothing, then the pain of being something. the agony of jonathan sims laps against martin blackwood’s feet, feeble waves against an ancient shoreline, forever present yet forever rewritten. martin blackwood’s hands remember the urge to cradle jonathan sims, the growing need to shelter him. martin blackwood wants.  


“i see you,” he breathes, and his soul cries with a weight it had nearly escaped, a cry it will not cease, but it is martin blackwood’s cry, martin blackwood’s choice.

martin blackwood’s home.


End file.
